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Hard by there ran a whimp'ring brook ;

The Road hung shelving tow'rds the brim ;
The spiteful Wind th' advantage took ;

The Wheel flies up; the Onions swim;
The Pcafant, faw his fav’rite store
At one rude blaft, all puff d away,
How would an English Clown have sworn,

To hear them plump, and see them roil ?
Have curs’d the day that he was born,

And, for an Onion, damn'd his Soul?'
Our Frenchman acted quite as well,
He llop'd (and hardly stop'd) his song;
First rais'd the Bidet from his swoon ;

Then stood a little while, to view
His onions, bobbing up and down ;

At last, he shrugging cry'd, Parbleu!
* Il ne manqu'ici, que du fel,
" Pour faire du potage excellent."

* Here wants nothing but falt

To make excellent porridge. Art. 29. Ode to the Legislator Elect of Russia, on his being prevented

from entering on his high Office, by a Fit of the Gout. 4to. 1S. Nicoll.

The raillery of this ode is poignant and spirited ;—but as the object of the Author's fatire is unhappily no more, we fall only add, that the Jittle poem before us was published a few weeks before Dr. B-'s melancholy catastrophe happened ; and that an account of it was sent to our printer, for the last month's Review ; but it was left out, with other articles, for want of room. Art. 30. Cynthia and Daphne. Translated from the Italian of

Il. Cavalier Marino, with a Dedication in Blank Verse to the Duke of York. 4to. 25. Almon. .

The loves of Pan and Apollo, so elegantly told by classic pens, are very ill paraphrased in the Italian, and much worse translated in the English. As a specimen of the powers of our Translator, take the following extract from his dedication :

Black-bearded Jove in majesty secure,
From throne of burnish'd gold wav'd boundless sway,
Loquacious Juno, as a trumpet fhrill,

With clamorous accents ranted through the skies.
This Writer seems to be a descendant of the sublime Sir Richard
Blackmore.
Art. 31. Providence, written in 1764. By the Rev. Joseph

Wise. 8vo. IS. Bladon. A strange farrago of rhyme in prose, or prose in rhyme : for infance:

“ The worthy wight, who thinks the best he can,

And lives thereto, will be the happy man.”.
This is very well meant, but

The worthy wight, who never would devise
Thik vertę to write, we'd call him Mr. Wise,

Art. 31.

Art. 32. The Poor Man's Prayer. Addressed to the Earl of

Chatham. By Simon Hedge. 4to. 6d. T. Payne. This very pathetic elegy cannot be supposed to be, in reality, the work of any Simon Hedge, -any unlettered peasant; for it is not unworthy the pen of a Mason or a Gray.-The subject is at this time fo critical, and the publication fo feasonable, that our humane Readers will forgive us, if, to second the endeavours of our benevolent Bard, we affift him in wafting some parts of the Poor Man's Prayer to other ears, beside those of the

right honourable personage to whom it is more immediately addressed.

Lord Chatham is thus folemnly and feelingly called upon, in the fecond ftanza :

O Chatham, nurs'd in ancient virtue's lore,

To these sad strains incline a fav’ring ear ;
Think on the God, whom Thou, and I adore,

Nor turn unpitying from the Poor Man's Prayer. Honest Hedge begins, very naturally, the recital of his distresses, by a melancholy retrospective view of his former happy ftate, in better simes :

Ah me! how blest was once a peasant's life! :

No lawless passion swell'd my even breast;
Far from the stormy waves of civil ftrife,

Şound were my slumbers, and my heart at rest.
I ne'er for guilty, painful pleasures rov'd, :

But taught by nature, and by choice to wed,
From all the hamlet cull'd whom best I lov'd,

With her I staid my heart, with her my bed.
To gild her worth I ask'd no wealthy power,

My toil could feed her, and my arm defend;
In youth, or age, in pain, or pleasure's hour,

The same fond husband, father, brother, friend.
And the, the faithful partner of my care,

When ruddy evening streak'd the western sky,
Look towards the uplands, if her mate was there,

Or thro' the beech w od caft an anxious eye.
Then, careful matron, heap'd the maple board

With favoury herbs, and pick'd the nicer part
From such pláin food as Nature could afford,

Ere simple nature was debauch’d by art.
While I, contented with my homely cheer,

Saw round my knees my prattling children play ;
And oft with pleas'd attention sat to hear

The little history of their idle day.
What a dismal reverse of this pleasing scene now follows !

But ah! how chang'd the scene ! on the cold stones,

Where wont at night to blaze the chearful fire,
Pale famine fits, and counts her naked bones,
Still frghs for food, still pines with vain defire.

My

3

Hard by there ran a whimp'ring brook ;

The Road hung shelving tow'rds the brim ;
The spiteful Wind th' advantage took ;

The Wheel flies up; the Onions swim ;
The Peasant, faw his fav'rite store
At one rude blaft, all puff'd away,
How would an English Clown have sworn,

To hear them plump, and see them roll?
Have curs'd the day that he was born,

And, for an Onion, damn’d his Soul?
Our Frenchman acted quite as well,
He llop'd (and hardly stop'd) his song ;
First rais'd the Bidet from his swoon

Then stood a little while, to view
His onions, bobbing up and down ;

At last, he shrugging cry'd, " Parbleu!
* Il ne manqu'ici, que du fel,
" Pour faire du polage excellent."

* Here wants nothing but falt

To make excellent porridge. Art.

29. Ode to the Legislator Eleet of Russia, on his being prevented from entering on his high Office, by a Fit of the Gout. 4to. is. Nicoll. The raillery of this ode is poignant and spirited ;—but as the object of the Author's fatire is unhappily no more, we shall only add, that the little poem before us was published a few weeks before Dr. B—'s melancholy catastrophe happened ; and that an account of it was sent to our printer, for the last month's Review ; but it was left out, with other articles, for want of room. Art. 30. Cynthia and Daphne. Translated from the Italian of

Il. Cavalier Marino, with a Dedication in Blank Verse to the Duke of York. 4to. 28. Almon.

The loves of Pan and Apollo, so elegantly told by classic pens, are very ill paraphrased in the Italian, and much worse translated in the English. As a specimen of the powers of our Tranflator, take the following extract from his dedication :

Black-bearded Jove in majesty secure,
From throne of burnish'd gold wav'd boundless sway,
Loquacious Jøno, as a trumpet fhrill,

With clamorous accents santed through the skies.
This Writer seems to be a descendant of the fublime Sir Richard
Blackmore.
Art. 31. Providence, written in 1764. By the Rev. Joseph

Wise. 8vo. Is. Bladon. A strange farrago of rhyme in prose, or prose in rhyme : for infance :

“ The worthy wight, who thinks the best he can,

And lives thereto, will be the happy man.”.
This is very well meant, but

The worthy wight, who never would devise
Thik verle to write, we'd call him Mr. Wise.

Art. 316

Art. 32. The Poor Man's Prayer. Addressed to the Earl of

Chatham. By Simon Hedge. 4to. 6d. T. Payne. This very pathetic elegy cannot be fupposed to be, in reality, the work of any Simon Hedge, -any unlettered peasant; for it is not unworthy the pen of a Mason or a Gray.—The subject is at this time fo critical, and the publication so seasonable, that our humane Readers will forgive us, if, to second the endeavours of our benevolent Bard, we affist him in wafting some parts of the Poor Man's Prayer to other ears, beside those of the right honourable personage to whom it is more immediately addressed.

Lord Chatham is thus folemnly and feelingly called upon, in the fecond stanza :

O Chatham, nurs'd in ancient virtue's lore,

To these sad strains incline a fav’ring ear ;
Think on the God, whom Thou, and I adore,

Nor turn unpitying from the Poor Man's Prayer. Honest Hedge begins, very naturally, the recital of his distresses, by a melancholy retrospective view of his former happy ftate, in better simes :

Ah me! how blest was once a peasant's life! :

No lawless passion swell'd my even breast;
Far from the stormy waves of civil ftrife,

Şound were my flumbers, and my heart at reft.
I ne'er for guilty, painful pleasures rov'd, :

But taughe by nature, and by choice to wed,
From all the hamlet cull'd whom best I lov'd,

With her I staid my heart, with her my bed.
To gild her worth I ask'd no wealthy power,

My toil could feed her, and my arm defend;
In youth, or age, in pain, or pleasure's hour,

The same fond husband, father, brother, friend.
And she, the faithful partner of my care,

When ruddy evening streak'd the weftern sky,
Look towards the uplands, it her mate was there,

Or thro' the beech-w.od caft an anxious eye.
Then, careful matron, heap'd the maple board

With favoury herbs, and pick'd the nicer part
From such plain food as Nature could afford,

Ere simple nature was debauch'd by art.
While I, contented with my homely cheer,

Saw round my knees my prattling children play ;
And oft with pleas'd attention fat to hear

The little history of their idle day.
What a dismal reverse of this pleasing scene now follows !

But ah! how chang'd the scene ! on the cold stones,

Where wont at night to blaze the chearful fire,
Pale famine fits, and counts her naked bones,
Still fighs for food, ftill pines with vain defire.

My

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My faithful wife with ever-dreaming eyes

Hangs on my bolom her dejected head;
My helpless infants raise their feeble cries,

And from their father claim their daily bread.
Dear tender pledges of my honest love,

On that bare bed behold your brother lie;
Three tedious days with pinching want he trove,

The fourth, I saw the helpless cherub die.
Nor long shall ye remain.. With visage four

Our tyrant lord commands us from our home;
And arm'd with cruel laws coercive power

Bids me and mine o'er barren mountain's roam. The complainant now proceeds to expatiate on the anmerited severity of his fate, and on the wickedness of those to whom he attributes his share of the general misery in which the poor are involved :

Hard was my fare, and constant was my toil,

Still with the morning's orient light I rose,
Fell’d the fouç oak, or rais'd the lofty pile,

Parch'd in the sun, in dark December froze.
Is it, that nature with a niggard hand

Withholds her gifts from these once favour'd plains ?
Has God, in vengeance to a guilty land,
Sent dearth and famine to her lab'ring Swains ?

1
Ah, no; yon hill, where daily sweats my brow,

A thousand focks, a thousand herds adorn ;
Yon field, where late I drove the painful plough,

Feels all her acres crown'd with wavy corn.
But what avails, that o'er the furrow'd soil

In autumn's heat the yellow harvests rise,
If artificial want elude my toil,

Untasted plenty wound my craving eyes ?
What profits, that at distance I behold

My wealthy neighbour's fragrant smoke ascend,
If Aill the griping cormorants withhold

The fruits which rain and genial seasons fend?"
If those fell vipers of the public weal
Yet onrelenting on our bowels prey;

i
If fill the curse of penury we feel,

And in the midst of plenty pine away?
He concludes with the following ardent supplication :

From thee alone I hope for instant aid,

'Tis thou alone can fave my children's breath ;
O deem not little of our cruel need,

Ohafte to help us, for delay is death.
So may nor spleen, nor envy blast thy name,

Nor voice profane thy patriot acts deride;
Still may's thou stand the first in honest fame,
Unftung by folly, vanity, or pride.

So

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